Man of Taste Chapter 11
They traveled over farmland and gentle rolling hills. The car hummed, as a vehicle of that size would. Heads turned as the huge Buick rolled into Montignac. They drove across the Vezere River Bridge into what they called the ‘old town’, which dates back to the Paleolithic age. There were still narrow streets of the past and houses built on stilts to keep them dry, and half timbered houses made of typical yellow stone of the region shone in the sun.
Built on both sides of the river, this modernized old town was once surrounded by a wall and connected by a wooden bridge. The bridge was burnt down by the Protestants in the late 15th century, and then rebuilt only to be carried away by floods. For years they used a ferry to cross. Today Constantin’s Buick swiftly moved across the new stone bridge. With over 3,000 inhabitants, Montignac boasted a series of shops, marketplaces and a comfortable hotel.
All Bruce had heard about this pretty town was its proximity to the caves at Lascaux. They were a magnet for people coming here and Bruce was anxious to see them for himself, but that would have to wait. Today’s trip was not for pleasure.
Bruce noticed a few gastronomic restaurants, but that too would be enjoyed on another day. Constantin had mentioned the specialties of the town which included Lascaux cake and “Poule au Pot” a chicken pot roast.
It looked like a good area for kayaking or trail paths. Bruce was impressed.
The car pulled up at the Police Station. Once inside, they were greeted by a frowning, mustachioed, white-haired detective. This was Monsieur Gilles Drollet, a fixture in the Montignac area.
The older man shook hands and nodded, then sat down behind his desk. Constantin explained that Bruce’s understanding of French was limited. The detective opened his dossier and put on his glasses.
“I will try my Engleesh.”
He explained what he discovered when he answered the call to come to Hautefort. The drawing had been removed, as Bruce knew. There were no finger prints, no suspects and no progress.
Bruce consulted his own notes.
“Was the window broken or forced in any way?”
“No.”
“Were there footprints outside the window?”
“I saw none.”
“But it may have been raining on the night it was taken. Surely there would be footprints in the mud.”
“I saw none. There are stones next to the wall. It was not raining when I was there.”
“How long after the robbery were you called?”
Constantin interjected. “We are not sure what day it was taken or if it was removed through the window. These are only assumptions. I only know when I discovered it.”
Bruce continued. “Did you question the people working in the house or those who worked there in the weeks before the picture was taken?”
“Yes. My assistant and I talked to those on the list which M. le Comte provided.”
“Do you have that list?”
“Bien sur.” He handed it to Bruce. It was rather lengthy.
“You spoke to everyone on the list?”
“Perhaps not everyone but most of them. I marked the ones I spoke to with an ‘x’.”
“Ah yes. Can I have a copy of your report and this list?’
Detective Drollet looked at Constantin, who nodded.
Drollet rose and went to a well-worn and ancient hand operated copier.
They talked generally about the stolen drawing. Drollet agreed that the replacement was an amateurish reproduction. He dismissed the fact that it was an inside job but reiterated that he had no suspects. He sent his report to police headquarters in Limoges and heard nothing since then.
“Are there any art dealers in the region?” Bruce looked resigned.
“Yes, there are some in Sarlat, Perigueux, Les Eyzees, Brantome and even in distant St Emilion. There is one right here in Montignac. But surely a work of that importance cannot be sold in a store window.”
“No. Perhaps not, but there are honest and fraudulent dealers. They are like a fraternity and if the price is right, they would sell to anyone,” Bruce explained.
Drollet protested. “But the owner would never be able to hang it. It would be inaccrochable”.
Bruce smiled for the first time. “Not all works of art are purchased for hanging. To some people, ownership is more important. There are many illicitly acquired works of art that remain in people’s vaults.”
Drollet nodded. “Perhaps this particular drawing should have been hidden away, or donated to a gallery, or…”
Constantin forced a smile. “But it wasn’t and I want to get it back,”
The meeting was over. Out on the street, Bruce lit a cigar. They went to the Relais du Soleil d’Or on rue du 4 Septembre, almost next door. This old coaching house dated back to the middle ages.
“I hear they have a fine dining room,” Constantin suggested.
He proved to be right, but Bruce had the gnawing feeling that Monsieur Drollet had provided little or no help. They were back where they started. The drawing was gone and so far they had no clues.
It did not, however, destroy Bruce’s appetite.
Even the view from the dining room was superb as they looked out at the glimmering pool through a wall of calla lilies. Their lunch of truffle paste and foie gras was an authentic taste sensation. As they ate their fruit puree and sipped a heady red Cahors wine, they chatted.
The old carriage house was unique and comfortable, especially close to the open fire.
Bruce thought a day or two was needed to get his strategy together. They would return to the Chateau, where Bruce would examine his notes and talk to the hired hands himself.
They headed north on the D704. There, high above the town, was the prestigious historical monument lit up and welcoming even from a great distance.
Marie-Claude waited at the main gate. Her smile was worth the long drive home. They sat by a warming fire and went over the day’s events. There would be much to do and to plan tomorrow.
Copyright © Arnie Greenberg
